


The legacy of Fëanaro

by Aisla_elfvictory



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 12:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20814974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisla_elfvictory/pseuds/Aisla_elfvictory
Summary: Feanor was well-renowned for his crafts in the forge, but to certain members of the House of Finwe, perhaps there was something else to this legacy of the Spirit of Fire; this song, that lasted through the ages, comforting elflings, peredhils and humans alike.





	The legacy of Fëanaro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Grundy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/gifts).

Years of the Trees

Outskirts of Valinor

A child’s cry echoed in the dark.

His companion sighed. 

“It’s the third time tonight,” mumbled Nerdanel.

Fëanaro grimaced. Whoever knew taking care of a child would be so tedious a job?

Maitimo had been the epitome of a well-behaved child even in his early years.

Whyever would Kanafinwe scream with every strike of the storm-clouds?

* * *

The storm had not faltered when Fëanaro entered his son’s room. 

Ah, the window was open.

Sighing, he strode and pulled shut the windows.

The room grew quiet as the child’s sobs slowed.

“Adar?” A child’s voice queried meekly. 

“Hush,” Fëanaro chastised, “We mustn’t wake baby Turcafinwe.”

His son sniffled still.

“What is it, ion nin?” 

Little Kanafinwe pursed his lips, hesitating.

“Do you love Turco more than you love me?”

The world stilled.

He had said the exact same words when baby Findis arrived-

_“Will you love the new baby more?”_

Finwe had laughed.

_“Of course, my son,” _he had said.

_“Promise me you’ll still love me, Adar.” _Fëanaro had begged his father when Indis birthed Nolofinwe. Nolofinwe, who was the exact image of his father.

Finwe never gave young Fëanaro an answer, and he had worried day and night, restless and fearful of being forgotten.

“Ion nin,” Fëanaro sighed, “Whyever will you ask that?”

Kanafinwe chewed on his lip, frowning still.

“You promised me that you have no favourites, Adar,” Kanafinwe mumbled, looking down.

Fëanaro’s heart clenched.

“And even if you did,” continued his son, “You will love me, because I am the younger one.”

Fool he was then! Assuring the child he would love him more merely because Nerdanel picked favourites.

“And now…” 

Kanafinwe’s voice drifted off.

“Now that baby Turkafinwe is here… Will you still love me?”

“Of course I will,” Fëanaro reassured.

“Now, this is a conversation we shall have for tomorrow. It is late-”

“Will you sing me to sleep?”

A song? He supposed he could acquiesce. 

“What song shall I sing, ion nin?”

Kanafinwe shrugged, “Maybe you can make one up.”

“Very well…” Fëanaro trailed off, thinking, then he began to sing.

“Lullaby and goodnight, with roses bedight

With lilies o'er spread is baby's wee bed

Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed

Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed”

Fëanaro peered at his drowsy elfling.

Kanafinwe smiled, blinking tiredly at his father.

“One day, Adar,” whispered the child, “I shall sing to you.”

“I have no doubt of that, Kano,” Fëanaro murmured.

* * *

First Age, 539

Amon Ereb

The storm had often seemed unforgiving, even before, in Sirion.

At home, he would scurry down the cold hallways and into the warmth of his mother’s bosom.

Elwing would laugh, that tinkering, infectious laugh and hold him close. 

“My dear child,” his mother would say, and read aloud, luring him to slumber with her soothing voice.

But he was at home no longer, and in Amon Ereb, with its eerie silence, Elrond had no mother for him to scurry to.

“Still awake?” a voice asked mildly. 

“Your brother is asleep.” Maglor paused. “As is mine.”

“The storm keeps me up,” Elrond muttered. He did not wish for Maglor to see him fearful and cowering. After all, for all his kindness, Maglor had taken him from his home.

“Ah,” Maglor nodded in understanding.

Elrond did not want him to understand. He did not want a kinslayer of all people to understand him when Elros and Elwing had not.

“Would you like me to sing you a lullaby?” The Feanorion asked.

Elrond did not. He did not want to hear a kinslayer sing. It would be betraying his mother. It would mean forgiving the kinslayers.

But Elrond was also tired. 

“Fine,” he scowled, turning away.

The streets rustled when Maglor sat next to him, smoothing back Elrond’s hair, then began to sing.

“Lullaby and goodnight, with roses bedight

With lilies o'er spread is baby's wee bed

Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed

Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed”

Irmo called to him, a promise of sweet dreams in his realm.

Anger at Maglor dissipated, and Elrond leaned back against a warm, steady chest as he drifted to sweet oblivion.

* * *

Third Age, 2935

Imladris

“Estel?” Elrond called for him.

“Why are you still awake, ion nin?”

His foster son blinked at him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” muttered the child.

Ah, the storm.

Elrond smiled, “Well, I know a lullaby…”

**Author's Note:**

> Ion nin = my son  
Adar = father
> 
> Please leave share your thoughts and leave a comment!


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